A Spot of Drabble  Rousing
by Skybright Daye
Summary: Behold, the popcorn chicken of Hannibal related short fiction! Stories ranging from 100 to 500 words written for the fanfic100 challenge on LiveJournal, all featuring Hannibal. New pieces added periodically. Can I offer you some BBQ sauce to go with that?
1. Independence

**Title: **Independence  
**Prompt:** 094. "Independence"  
**Word Count:** 100

* * *

"Aw, c'mon, Ma. Lemme go already." The young boy with the thatch of golden hair squirms out of his mother's grasp and makes a grab for his schoolbag. 

His mother makes a chiding noise, straightening his collar. "Now you come straight home."

"Yeah, Ma, I will." He shoulders his bag and flashes her that brilliant grin that is so like his father's. Then he turns and bolts out the front door.

Martha Smith unconsciously follows him, peering out from behind the curtains of the front window – and watches as her small son walks to school alone for the first time.

* * *

**A/N: **Greetings and salutations! What you see before you is the ever-growing product of my love for Hannibal, my utter lack of common sense, and my pathological aversion to doing my homework. As a participant in the fanfic100 challenge at LiveJournal dot com, my goal is to write one hundred stories all featuring Hannibal Smith. As an added personal challenge to myself, I'm trying to make each story exactly 100, 200, 300, 400, or 500 words in length. At present I'm about halfway to the goal of 100 stories. Some of them I've posted separately already, ten of them make up the chapters in my fic "Scenes From a Balcony" -- and this is where I'll be putting the rest. 


	2. Heart

**Title:** Heart  
**Prompt:** 047.'Heart'  
**Word Count**: 100

* * *

The kid is babyfaced and too young to be here; if he isn't lying about his age I'll eat my hat. Heck, he's probably lying about his name, come to that – who'd really name their kid _John Smith_, anyway? If I had any sense I'd send him packing now.

But there's something in his eyes that won't let me do that – because he may look soft, but those eyes are pure steel. They're fearless eyes – and not just stupid-kid fearless, either. Proud, cagey, take-no-prisoners fearless. Soldier fearless.

He may be green – but that won't matter. He's got a soldier's heart.


	3. West Point Day One

**Title: **West Point, Day One  
**Prompt:** 088. "School"  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

It's your typical classroom; students talking amongst themselves about schedules, coursework, instructors. The only difference is the uniforms these students wear, their close-cut hair and the newly-minted, soldierly look they all have about them in varying degrees. The boyish, grinning cadet in the front row tosses off a laughing reply to a classmate, leans back in his desk with an air of casual assurance that somehow sets him off from the others.

Then the door swings open, and they all leap to attention as the instructor comes in. He's a taller man, youthfully handsome despite the iron-gray streaks at the temples of his black hair. His uniform is crisp, and his dark eyes sweep the room with a sharp, intelligent gaze. There's a gleam behind that gaze, a spark of mischievous glee. The front-row cadet catches that gleam; and though his expression doesn't waver, his pale blue eyes kindle with a matching spark.

The instructor takes his place at the head of the class, nods curtly and removes his uniform cap. "Gentlemen," he says as they sit down, "My name is Brigadier General Robert Hogan."

His grin breaks out, fierce and brilliant. "And I'm here to teach you unorthodoxy."

* * *

**A/N:** Ah, yes, the obligatory military-themed-fandom crossover that every A-Team writer eventually gets to. Google "Hogan's Heroes" if you don't get it. 


	4. Where?

**Title: **Where?  
**Prompt:** 078. 'Where?'  
**Word Count: **100

* * *

"Well, I don't see why you've got to go there."

John sighs, shakes his head fondly at his mother. "Because I'm a soldier, Ma. I have orders."

"Well." Mrs. Smith is a short, rounded woman; the eyes in her lined face snap the same icy blue color as her son's eyes. She turns abruptly, stirs fiercely at whatever-it-is she's cooking, making small, miffed noises.

"Hey." He crosses the kitchen and grasps her shoulders. "Don't be mad at me, Ma. I'll come home safe, don't worry."

She sets her spoon aside abruptly, looking fretful. "Where in the world _is_Korea, anyway?"


	5. Dear John

**Title: **Dear John  
**Prompt:** 014. 'Green'  
**Word Count:** 100

* * *

The irony isn't lost on him as he reads the opening line for the fiftieth time.

_Dear John . . ._

How convenient for her, he thinks, to have such a well-worn opening for her I'm-leaving-you letter. He resists the urge to crush the paper in his fist – only because he knows from experience that he'll smooth it out moments later. Instead he gazes off into the green world at the edge of camp, trying to think of tomorrow's duties or his next furlough.

But all he can think of is the last time he saw Deborah, and how green her eyes were.


	6. Requiem

**Title**: Requiem  
**Prompt:** 096. 'Writer's Choice'  
**Word Count:** 100

* * *

You can't see the Mine from here. But it's here, in the stones erected over men that the Mine killed – with falling rock or gas or decades of weariness. It's here in the solid, silent names. 

It's here, in this stone, in the ubiquitous name _Smith_; in the man beneath the stone and in the man, his son, standing before it.

That man blows smoke into the evening air, looks out over the valley he left long ago, towards the Mine that he somehow still carries with him.

Then he touches the stone, gently.

"Rest in peace, Dad." Hannibal whispers.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **In my demented, obsessed little fanfiction brain, Hannibal Smith was born and raised in an Irish mining family in Butte, Montana -- and this author's note never said any different! (_koff _thanks for the catch, reinbeauchaser _koff_) 


	7. Outwitted

**Title:** Outwitted  
**Prompt:** 044. 'Circle'  
**Word Count:** 300

* * *

He drew a circle that shut me out--  
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.  
But Love and I had the wit to win:  
We drew a circle that took him in.

-- Edwin Markham, "Outwitted"

The guy's everything they said, all right. Surly. Mean. Glaring through the bars of the cell with a malevolent scowl like King Kong immediately pre-Empire State Building.

And _big_. Not tall – shorter than Hannibal by a good couple inches – but solid. Nothing but muscle and scowl and a bad attitude that's enough to melt the paint right off the bars of his cell.

He growls when Hannibal saunters in. "Whatcha want, Whitey?"

"Technically," Hannibal says, seemingly oblivious to the death glare, "That's_Colonel _Whitey." He strikes a match on the _No Smoking _sign, lights his cigar. "They tell me you've got a mean right hook."

Scowl.

Hannibal continues cheerfully, "They also tell me you threw a superior officer through a plate-glass window."

A self-satisfied grin – so brief it almost didn't happen – but a grin, nonetheless.

"And," Hannibal leans up against the bars, "They tell me you know electronics."

The scowl is back, but it's lightened considerably; and it's easy, if you know what to look for, to see that under all that bad attitude he's a nineteen-year-old kid sitting in a cell a million miles from home. He juts his chin at Hannibal. "So?"

"So." Hannibal gestures broadly with the cigar, looking the big man right in the eyes. "So my question to you is – do you wanna sit here and wait until you get court-martialled;" He grins, extends his hand. "Or do you wanna get out and help me wreak some havoc?"

There's a long, thinking pause. Then the big man puts his broad, solid hand in Hannibal's.

B.A. Baracus grins. "When d'we start?"


	8. Legendary

**Title: **Legendary  
**Prompt:** 076. 'Who?'  
**Word Count:** 500

* * *

Naw, Kulver, they ain't no legend. They're real as you or me.

How do I know? 'Cause I_seen _'em, man. Swear on my mother – Jones, you shut up.

Well, I was in this bar in Saigon. I dunno _when_, man, last time I had R&R. Friday night, guys comin' in for booze and boasting and an hour not bein' in Nam. Yeah, genius, I know – I mean, as close as you get while you _are_in Nam.

Look, you suckers wanna hear this or not?

Anyway. It'd been a bad couple weeks. Guys wound up tight, just tryin' not to get killed. So the bar's hopping with this sort of weird nervous tension, and the door swings open and _they _walk in.

Who you _think_I mean, Davis? The Chicago Bears?

First in was their pilot. The madman. Talked to himself, sorta bopped when he walked, grinnin' this not-all-there grin that made you wonder what the heck they were thinkin' lettin' a guy like that run a chopper.

Next up was the blonde guy, the con artist. Face like outta some Hollywood movie or somethin'. I kid you not, guy walked in and six nurses were on 'im in a second flat. Bartender threw free booze at him.

Behind him, the biggest Black guy you ever saw. _Yeah_, Davis, bigger than Swanson. Musta been seven foot tall and four wide. Boy, floorboards cracked when this dude walked in.

Kulver, who's tellin' this, you or me?

And trailin' them in was the Man himself, chewin' a cigar and striding across the bar like Atlas stridin' the face of the earth.

Shut up, Jones, some of us_read _is all. Jeeze.

The Man owned the place the minute he walked in. He seemed bigger even than the Black guy, the way he grinned. The air around him sorta crackled, like lightning was gonna strike him any time – or like someone was gonna get struck.

I dunno for sure, but I think it was a Marine threw the first punch. Alls I know is, one minute the bar was wound tight, next minute it sprang – and they were right in the thick of it.

In that moment, watchin' that barfight, it was easy seein' how the stories about them got going. Those guys were a _unit_, man, I mean really solid.

You never saw anythin' like the way those guys fought. Man, they moved like they were _one guy, _four bodies with one brain guidin' 'em. From the way that the Man sort of half-barked orders the whole time, maybe they even were.

What next? I hightailed it outta there, man – before the MPs showed.

Hey, Swanson, shaddup. You can't tell me you wouldn't have done the same. I got better places to rot than a brig in Saigon. Not even the A-Team was worth my stickin' around.

But that's how I know, Kulver. Those guys ain't no legend. Leastways, they ain't yet.

Hey, that's how it_happened_, man.

Would I lie?


	9. Condolence

**Title: **Condolence  
**Prompt:** 030. 'Death'  
**Word Count: **300

* * *

_The soldier's commander prepares the letter of sympathy. Keep letters sincere and in simple language. Show a warm, personal interest in the soldier and the addressee. Extend condolences and describe the circumstances surrounding the soldier's death or missing status. - Army Regulations 600-8-1_

There are very few parts of his life as a commanding officer that Hannibal doesn't love. Even the most mundane and unpleasant bureaucratic wranglings can, from the right point of view, be their own kind of challenge. If the brass is more annoyed than he is at the end of the encounter, then he wins.

But there's one part of being CO that Hannibal hates more than anything in the world. Because staring down a rifle barrel or a raging bureaucrat is one thing. Staring down a blank paper with someone's wife or daughter or lover or mother on the other end of it is another thing entirely. It's an encounter that even he can't win.

_Preparing the letter of sympathy._

Nobody bothered telling him what to say, beyond a few typically terse Army-manual instructions. _Keep letters sincere and in simple language_. As if death is ever sincere and simple. As if any letter can ease that kind of hurt.

He's not sure what's worse; writing a letter for a good soldier or for a bad one. He writes it either way -- _he was a good soldier_. Hard enough to write when the words are true – worse when the truth he's hiding behind them is more harsh._ He was a fool. He was careless. He shouldn't have been here. _Hard to mask that with the same clichéd phrase: but Hannibal figures that whoever-it-is on the other end deserves whatever comfort he can give, even if it's false comfort.

As if there were any other kind.


	10. Elephants

**Title:** Elephants  
**Prompt:** 015. 'Blue'  
**Word Count:** 300

* * *

_If we do not laugh, we will burst into tears. – proverb_

* * *

**Somewhere in Vietnam, February 1970**

* * *

"Colonel."

"Hey, Colonel."

The voice called him back from dreams of a cleaner, warmer place and he came awake quickly, cursing himself for drifting off.

"Murdock." Hannibal shifted closer to the pilot – not that "closer" meant much in the cramped bamboo cage. "How you feeling, Captain?"

Murdock shrugged faintly in reply, propping himself up awkwardly on his elbows. "Hey, Colonel – how d'ya get an elephant into an icebox?"

Hannibal frowned in faint confusion and concern. "Come again?"

"Simple." Murdock grinned easily, as if the side of his face were not a mess of bruises, as if he were not just returned from nearly a month in solitary. "Open the door, put in the elephant, and close the door."

Hannibal shook his head. "You oughtta rest, Captain." Privately he wondered if Murdock was delirious, if he'd contracted one of those jungle diseases men came down with in this pit. It was hard to tell, with Murdock.

"Rest. Sure." Murdock eased himself back down, still grinning. "How d'ya get a giraffe into an icebox?"

Hannibal decided to play along – and to check Murdock's temperature. Not that there'd be anything he could do if the pilot was feverish . . . "I don't know. How?"

"Open the door, take out the elephant, put in the giraffe and close the door." Murdock closed his eyes with a smirk. "All right, how 'bout this one. The lion threw a party. Big party. Streamers and everythin'. All the animals came except one. Know which one didn't come? The giraffe. . ."

"Because he was still in the icebox." Hannibal finished, sitting back on his heels with an inward sigh of relief. _No fever, at least_.

"You got it." Murdock's eyes flicked open and his grin turned sly. "Now wasn't that better'n worrying about me, Colonel?"

Hannibal blinked, startled – and then chuckled abruptly. "Yeah, I guess it was." He retreated to his corner of the bamboo cage and settled back against the bars. "You know, Captain – you're crazy."

"Yeah." Murdock closed his eyes again with a self-satisfied sigh, "But it's a good kind of crazy."

Hannibal grinned faintly at that. "I suppose it is."

He closed his own eyes and wondered if he could get back to that cleaner, warmer place . . .

"Hey, Colonel."

Hannibal's blue eyes snapped open again.

"How d'ya shoot a blue elephant?"


	11. Fixed

**Title:** Not Taken  
**Prompt:** 072. 'Fixed'  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

In the first few days, when they are holed up in a decrepit cabin as far from Fort Bragg as possible, Hannibal wonders if he should have done something differently.

If he should have questioned Morrison's orders. If he should have led the Guys on a mad dash back into the DMZ once he realized they'd been set up. If he should have bargained with that greasy lawyer, instead of breaking his jaw. If he should have settled in, learned to deal with his sentence – and led the Guys to do the same by example.

None of those choices feels right, in retrospect: they don't Jazz, which is why he didn't take them to begin with. What Jazzed was taking the mission, coming back to America, clocking the lawyer, hopping the wall at Fort Bragg – so those were the things he did.

But he knows, even in these first few post-escape, what-now days, that the Jazz choices have let all of them in for a long, difficult haul – for running, hiding, never quite relaxing. It won't be easy, and maybe another way would have been.

But now, of course, it doesn't really matter.

Because now their course is already fixed.


	12. The Hard Part

**Titles: **The Hard Part  
**Prompt:** 079., "When?"  
**Word Count**: 200

* * *

Finding Murdock wasn't that hard. It'd been part of the Plan all along, one of an endless string of details we went over before we jumped the wall at Bragg. Even when it turned out Murdock wasn't enlisted anymore and Face had to scam himself into an entirely different branch of the records division looking for his whereabouts – that wasn't the hard part.

The hard part wasn't in getting to L.A. along back roads, switching vehicles every couple days in case the bloodhounds caught wind of the car we were driving.

The hard part was getting here and realizing – somewhere shortly after Face and I scammed our way into Murdock's room and just before we beat a hasty retreat in the face of an advancing Head Nurse – that Murdock was not, after all, in the VA mental ward because it made a good cover.

He was there because he needed it.

The hard part was when Murdock looked up at me with eyes that were frightful in their sadness and said quietly "I think maybe I shouldn't leave with ya. Not this time, Colonel."

The hard part was nodding, turning for the door, ignoring Face's protest.

_Not this time._


	13. Masquerade

**Title:** Masquerade  
**Prompt:** 065. 'Passing'  
**Word Count:** 100

* * *

John Smith is an actor.

It's not just that he's got a SAG card with his name on it, not just that – if you stay through the end of certain bad drive-in horror flicks – you'll see _John Smith_ in the credits.

The man who shows up on set in the mornings is already playing his real role. The guy glad-handing potential directors and flirting with brainless, talentless blonde costars is an act.

The real John Smith lives one mission at a time, in furious bursts of gunsmoke and mocking laughter and the Jazz.

Everything else is just Hannibal passing time.


	14. Breakfast

**Title:** Breakfast  
**Prompt: **056. 'Breakfast'  
**Word Count: **200

* * *

It's the second day of the case, and they've stopped for breakfast at the local café before they settle into a long day of battling thugs.

The waitress has just brought out their plates of eggs and pancakes when the explosion goes off. The front window of the diner explodes in a shower of glass, and they dive behind the counter, reaching for their weapons.

"Heyy, boys!" The taunting voice of the local crime boss calls from outside the diner, "C'mon out an' plaaaay!"

Face frowns nervously as he risks a glance over the counter. "Must be at least ten guys out there."

"Must be." Hannibal grins as he checks the clip in his pistol.

"Oh, no." Face shakes his head. "No."

"Hannibal," BA scowls, "This ain't no time for you to do nothin' crazy."

"Yeah, Hannibal, I don't brawl so well on an empty stomach." Murdock agrees.

"You kiddin'?" Hannibal grins cheekily and shifts position, "We'll eat _these_guys for breakfast."

With a gleeful chuckle, Hannibal launches himself over the front counter.

The other three exchange longsuffering looks and sigh, shaking their heads. "He's on the Jazz, man." They agree simultaneously.

And then they scramble over the counter after him.


	15. Dawn Cure

**Title:** Dawn Cure  
**Prompt:** 031.'Sunrise'  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

Most nights Hannibal sleeps without dreams, or with the ordinary kind that fade with waking. What he's lived through stays mostly settled; he's come to peace with his demons.

Oh, but there _are_some nights. A bad plan or a close call or too much of the Jazz – and he wakes in cold sweats calling the names of dead men and aching in old scars.

Tonight was one of _those_; he came back from Vietnam at four a.m. with blood and gunpowder on his tongue. He knew better than to try and go back to sleep; instead he slipped a handful of cigars into the pocket of his robe and let himself out onto the apartment balcony.

Other men use whiskey or women to drive away those nights; but Hannibal knows better from long experience. Only one thing will cure those nights – and he's been waiting for it since four a.m., smoking and thinking in the early L.A. darkness.

It's seven, now. The eastern sky unfolds ribbons of gold and rose; the nightmare fades back at last into whatever dark corner such things come from. Hannibal stands, stretching.

For one of those nights, sunrise is the only cure Hannibal knows.


	16. Though You May Vote Alone

**Title: **Though You May Vote Alone  
**Prompt:** 086. 'Choices'  
**Word Count:** 400  
**A/N:**Title taken from a John Quincey Adams quote: "Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost." It should go without saying, but this didn't actually happen.

* * *

"What's the point?" 

Hannibal cocks an eyebrow at the kid: he's nineteen, one of those leather-jacketed types who simmer with resentment for the world in general. It's his father who's hired the Team this time, to try and help protect the votes in a county election where the incumbents have been keeping their positions with terror. The Team has handled this kind of thing before -- but the kid is something new. Hannibal slides a chair toward him and motions to it with his free hand (the one not resting on his rifle). "Have a seat, son."

The kid rolls his eyes slightly at the moniker, but he slouches into the chair and gives Hannibal his best bored stare.

Hannibal takes a moment to light a cigar, blows a smoke ring at the ceiling, and then says "My grandfather was a miner; he dug copper to make rich men richer. Butte was like this town, in those days: there were the fat cats who ran things, and a handful of guys who wanted to do right by regular guys -- _if _they could get elected.

"There was an election, two months after Grandad got his citizenship. One of the guys from the union ran across one of the copper barons. Everyone in town was strongarmed into voting for the same old scumbag. Everyone except my Grandfather."

The kid raises an eyebrow. "He voted against him?"

"You bet he did." Hannibal says fiercely. "Marched in, cast his vote, and let everyone know it."

The kid's interested, but trying not to show it. "So what happened?"

"They broke his ribs and tried to burn down his house." Hannibal leans forward. "They hounded him relentlessly. All for casting that one vote."

The kid does his best not to smirk. "So it wasn't worth it."

"No." Hannibal shakes his head vehemently. "No. Because the next time an election rolled around, he let everyone know he was going to do the same thing again. For as many elections as it took. And the next time he went in to vote, he wasn't alone."

Hannibal leans forward, trying to drive home the point. "It was worth it, because he showed people one guy, one vote, could make a difference. And it can. _That's_the point."

The kid grins slowly. "He taught you a lot, huh?"

Hannibal grins in return, nods. "He taught me everything I know."


	17. Why Not?

**Title:** Why Not?  
**Prompt:** 080. 'Why?'  
**Word Count:** 300

* * *

"Why me?"

Practically the first thing Murdock ever said to me. He'd gotten a bad rap around the base -- too many stuffed shirts couldn't see past the jive-talk and the lunatic grin to the Pilot, capital-P, underneath.

But I saw, and I leaned across the packing crate and gave him my own best lunatic grin. "Because you're the best."

And he grinned back, and stuck out his hand to shake mine.

* * *

"Why me?"

BA growled it out, slouching in his mess-hall seat, ostensibly "sick" of Murdock's constant patter. I slapped his shoulder jovially, pretending not to see the affection he hid in the words.

"Because if not you, BA, then who?"

* * *

"Why me?"

Familiar words, especially coming from the Kid -- the same old faint sigh, the same slight roll of his eyes and barely-suppressed grin.

I grinned back and checked the clip in my pistol. "Well, why not?"

And then we were both out of the doorway and barreling towards the day's bunch of bad guys, guns blazing.

* * *

Why them? Why not any other guys in Vietnam?

Because they were better and brighter -- and maybe madder -- than any others. Because something about them Jazzed, with me and with each other.

Why us?

Because in our own way we each had nobody else. Because some deep thing in each of us needed the others fiercely. And that deep thing knew a good thing when it happened, and caught us all and pulled us into the best unit the world's ever seen.

Decker would kill for one chance to command men of their caliber. So would any other officer I've known. I know that; know how lucky I am to have a Team like mine. And grateful as I am, I can't help be a little mystified by it, too.

_Why me?_


	18. His Baby

**Title: **His Baby  
**Prompt**: 085. 'She'  
**Word Count: **100

* * *

She is perfect. Fearless, efficient, strong – enough to put the fear of God into anyone who sees her in action. And Hannibal won't lie – he loves her. He loves to see her work, loves the elegant power of her actions, loves even the smell of her. There is something perfect and right about the way she feels in his arms.

The guys may not get it, but that's okay. She's still _his _Baby.

Hannibal lifts the M-60 from its resting place and cradles it, patting its side with undisguised affection.

"Hello, Baby," he croons, "Let's go have some fun."

* * *

A/N: So, yeah -- 'Baby' is, in case you don't know, the M-60 .30 caliber machine gun that the Guys cart around in the back of the van. 


	19. Someday

**Title:** Someday**  
Prompt:** 034. 'Not Enough'  
**Word Count:** 500  
**A/N: **Set immediately after the main events of the pilot episode, "Mexican Slayride".

* * *

It's quite a party that San Rio Blanco throws once the bad guys are safely dispatched with: music, dancing, bonfires, impromtu speeches honoring _El Equipo A. _It's quite a party. BA spends most of the night with his lap full of kids who chatter and finger his chains and gaze up with that wide-eyed, adoring look he evokes without even trying. 

Hannibal lurks at the edges of the festivities, watching everything with that unreadably smug post-mission look of his; but he seems distracted, and somehow aloof from all the merrymaking. BA is the only one who notices.

* * *

Later, after the music fades and the fires die down, BA hands off the last of the kids to her mother and rises, stretching. Murdock's started a poker game, Amy Allen is asleep on Al Massey's shoulder by the fire -- it's probably best not to ask where Face has gotten off to.

He spots a glimmer of cigar-light, ambles over to where his commander is perched in the bed of a defunct pickup truck. Hannibal's watching the stars, neck craned slightly to take in the night sky; he nods an almost-imperceptible greeting as BA approaches. "Nice night."

BA makes some small noise of agreement, hoists himself onto the tailgate and follows Hannibal's gaze. Something is bothering the Colonel; that much is clear. Hannibal's not one to pass up a party unless there's something on his mind. BA clears his throat. "Done alright on this one."

Hannibal nods, glances at the now-slumbering town. "They got their town back."

There's something in the words, an edge, an almost-sorrow, that give BA pause. He remembers, suddenly, the conversation he half-overheard this afternoon.

_I'm a rancher . . . Ridin' out over the North Forty . . . It's a place I call home._

And even if Amy Allen saw through the story and Hannibal followed it up with a just-bluffing grin -- there was a real longing somewhere in those words. And BA, remembering, knows what's bothering the Colonel.

It's never occurred to him before tonight that the rootlessness of their life might bother Hannibal like it does him. Heck, BA isn't even sure where Hannibal's from; over the years he's heard seventeen opinions from a dozen sources, none of them Hannibal. But wherever it is, Hannibal -- tonight, at least -- is missing it fiercely.

"You ever been to Montana, BA?" The question is sudden, delivered with a false nonchalance.

BA shrugs. "No, man. Never."

Hannibal nods slightly, looks back up at the stars. "Too bad." There's a long pause. "Maybe someday . . ."

The words trail off; and the silence is heavy with questions BA wants to ask, things he wants to say and somehow can't. At last he settles for nodding. "Someday." He makes the word a promise, an appointment, and Hannibal flashes him a brief grin.

"Someday." He repeats, sealing the bargain. And then again, very softly, "Someday."

They lapse again into that heavy silence; and they sit for a long time like that, watching the stars wheel above San Rio Blanco.


	20. Ten Years

**Titles:** Ten Years  
**Prompt:** 007., "Days"  
**Word Count: **100

* * *

When he was a kid he had his own calendar – one of those single-sheet, five year items that the local hardware store distributed for free – on which he marked the days with small, precise Xs, counting the passage of time. He never quite gave up the habit, even though his life long ago lost the fixed schedules that give such rituals most of their meaning.

_3,653 days_, he thinks, as he marks off an anniversary only four people observe. 3,653 Xs since they went on the run.

He wonders how many more he'll mark before they can stop running.


	21. The Siege of Yorktown

**Title:** The Siege of Yorktown  
**Prompt: **028. 'Children'  
**Word Count:** 500

* * *

Their latest client is a woman – stubborn, widowed, determined that she won't let her land be taken over by _anyone_, no matter what risks are involved for her and her small son. They are besieged and badly outnumbered. The Evil Henchmen are not above using automatic weapons to make their point, and The Evil Boss has delivered an ultimatum – give up by noon tomorrow or else.

Piece of cake. It's a familiar story, so much so that Hannibal almost mapped the Plan in his sleep. This particular Plan involves a certain amount of waiting, however – most good plans do – and the client (impatient as well as stubborn) is getting restless and irritated. She expresses this by banging around in the kitchen, muttering and fiercely attacking dust. Hannibal, who doesn't much like restless women and has learned to avoid irritated clients, excuses himself and ducks out onto the back porch.

The aforementioned small son is out there, sitting forlornly on the edge of the porch and playing with a few of those small, jointed army-men figures. Hannibal watches him for a moment, then surveys the forest at the edge of the yard for any sign of premature attack.

Peter looks up, dark eyes filled with quiet awe at this silver-haired stranger who has (in his brief experience) been the only _good _guy ever to have the courage to oppose Peter's mother. He bites his lip thoughtfully (even though Mom says he shouldn't do that) and then speaks up.

"Hey mister."

The man turns, listening intently. That's one thing Peter likes about this man and the friends he's brought with him; they listen when he speaks, almost as if he were a grownup like them instead of just a kid.

Peter holds out one of his toys, his voice hesitant. "You wanna play GI Joe with me?"

For a moment the man looks confused at the suggestion; then he glances briefly back at the forest, grins, and turns back to Peter with a nod. "Why not?"

He settles himself on the porch next to Peter and picks one of the figures out of the pile, examining it thoughtfully. He smells like cigars and old leather and shaving cream, and the slow way his grin lights up his face makes Peter think of his dad.

The man – Hannibal – plucks a couple of lincoln logs out of Peter's toy pile and starts to arrange them on the floor. "You ever heard of the Siege of Yorktown, Peter?"

Peter shakes his head. Hannibal grins and starts speaking; and as his hands build a small landscape of toys, his words spin a long-ago war into vibrant life.

Later, much later, when Murdock comes looking for his commander, he pokes his head out of the back door and sees Hannibal and Peter both sprawled on their bellies, surrounded by GI Joes and talking in low, excited tones about Cornwallis' next move.

Murdock shakes his head and retreats back into the house, smiling indulgently.

_Kids_.


	22. The Lunch Date

**Title: **The Lunch Date  
**Prompt:** 057. 'Lunch'  
**Word Count: **100

* * *

Yesterday Hannibal had lunch at one of the best restaurants in LA – the producer was talking him into a picture. Hannibal let himself be persuaded with poached salmon and the best white wine they offered.

Today it's Bellybuster burgers (extra mustard) at a weather-beaten picnic table in Westwood. While they eat Murdock rambles happily about everything that's happened since last mission – the weather and Billy and how his therapy's going, which meds they have him on now and if they're working. It's a comforting tradition, this semi-regular lunch date between two friends.

Hannibal prefers it to poached salmon any day.


	23. Sparky

**Title:** Sparky  
**Prompt: **017. 'Brown'  
**Word Count: **300

* * *

"Hold Sparky for a_minute_, pleeeeease?" This is the daughter of their current client, one of those kids with a precise knowledge of just how far their big brown eyes will get them. "Sparky" is a small brown rabbit, held out insistently by the aforementioned kid. The little critter's nose is working in the furious and perpetually frightened way of its kind, and its black eyes are fixed intently on Hannibal's.

Hannibal starts to suggest that Murdock would be a better choice for bunny-sitter – but before he can form the words the girl has bolted for the house, some ways up the hill, and he is left with hands full of quivering brown fluff. He holds the rabbit at arm's length and squints at it, as if it is an explosive device he has not yet learned how to disarm. The explosive device wiggles its nose and gives one good thrash before it settles back in to staring at Hannibal.

Hannibal regards the creature for another moment before he retakes his seat on the rusting hulk of the old tractor and settles the rabbit gingerly in the crook of one arm. Sparky snuffles at Hannibal's sleeve, nibbles cautiously at the cuff of his glove, then settles his liquid, unblinking gaze on the stretch of hardscrabble woodland that borders the property.

Hannibal glances down at the creature, then at the woods, from which he is sure the goons will be coming. "Whaddaya think, Sparky?" He asks casually, "Over that ridge or through the ravine?"

Sparky regards the terrain gravely, twitches one ear, and sneezes on Hannibal's sleeve.

Hannibal chuckles. "The ravine. I think you're right."

They settle back into silence. Hannibal scratches vaguely behind Sparky's ear, and wonders casually how BA would feel about a Team mascot . . . .


	24. Digging

**Title: **Digging  
**Prompt:** 050. 'Spade'  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

"Y'know," Hannibal says conversationally, "You guys've seen too many westerns." He gestures at the hole he's standing in. "I mean, digging your own grave? It's such a cliche."

The biggest thug scowls, gesturing with his assault rifle. "Don't talk. Dig."

"Suit yourself." Hannibal bends back to the task, sending clods of hard-baked dirt leaping up into the air.

For a moment he's far away – breaking ground in his father's garden, the cool April-smelling earth giving way beneath his spade, roots and rocks turning up out of the damp clay. He can almost forget the blaze of sun on the back of his neck, and the menacing shadows of the thugs looming around him.

Almost.

The Team will be along soon, but he has to stall for time. He pauses once again, grinning insolently at them. "Trouble you fellas for a glass of water?"

"_Dig_."

Hannibal makes a faux-miffed noise, shrugs, goes back to digging. Thinks again about Dad's garden, the job of turning it up every spring. Strains his hearing, hoping . . . and catches the faint but fast-approaching sound of a racing van engine.

Hannibal grins, tightens his grip on the spade, and prepares to leap out of the hole.


	25. Silence and Slow Time

**Title:** Silence and Slow Time  
**Prompt: **010., "Years"  
**Word Count: **200

* * *

They aren't the same men he met, those long years gone. Time has changed each of them in a thousand subtle ways. If they were to face each other across that gulf of time they would be awful strangers to each other, to themselves, wearing masks made of the changes that slow time brings. Nor would they recognize him – even he, who seems so ageless, has changed in the intervening time, in ways he can't understand or name.

The years have been . . . not good to them, exactly. "Good" to him carries connotations of ease, of benevolence and simplicity, and their years together have been tough and complicated and often painful. But they have been years nonetheless, wild and thrilling and high on the Jazz. Mad years. Full years. Happy years.

Perhaps most important of all, they have been years_ together _– and though they might be strangers to the men they once were, they are brothers, comrades, family to the men that they are. It was the years that did that, those years of terror and gunpowder, crashes and cons and near-misses. Those years gave him his Team.

And what more, after all, could one ask from one's years?


	26. Equidistant

**Title: **Equidistant  
**Prompt: **022 'Enemies'  
**Word Count:** 400  
**A/N:** This one is set post-pardon, to avoid any confusion.

* * *

It had to happen eventually, us running into each other like this. With all that was said and done, for all we clashed, at some basic level we're just two guys – two very similar guys. So it's no surprise we should end up here, eyeing each other from opposite ends of the bar.

If I was twenty years younger I'd have made a crack by now, something about hospitals and men who can't aim, and he would've risen to the bait, and it would've come to scowls and bluster and eventually blows until one of us was bleeding or arrested.

If I was ten years younger I'd have outfoxed him by now, given him a mad catch-me-if-you-can grin and taken off sprinting; and he'd have been hot at my heels, almost – almost – _almost _but not _quite _the victor, standing in my dust trail shaking his fist and most likely humiliated to boot.

But we're neither one of us as young as we used to be, and somewhere along the line either I gave up running or he gave up chasing. Maybe we both gave up at the same time, who knows? Whatever the case, we just eye each other, not quite scowling, not speaking or moving any closer.

Ever noticed that his eyes are the same color as mine?

Like I said – peel away the different levels of brass and the different paths we took, and we're a lot alike, me and him. Sometimes I think that's why we clashed so bad from Da Nang on up. Lay two magnets end-to-end with the matching poles together and see what it gets you. Repulsion. Rejection. A clash that drives one to advance, the other to retreat. An equal distance that can't be bridged.

So neither one of us makes any move, except to glance sideways at each other across the distance with something that's not quite malice and not quite forgiveness, until finally one of us – never mind which one – raises his glass, and the other does the same. It's not a truce and it's not an apology, it isn't even exactly an acknowledgment of our sameness. It's a tip of the hat to that distance between us, to the fact we're both done with trying to close the gap.

And to the fact that it's good to know that some things – even things like distances – will never change.


	27. Like Jazz

**Title: **Like Jazz  
**Prompt:** 035. "Sixth Sense"  
**Word Count:** 300

* * *

He wasn't the one who gave his sixth sense a name. In point of fact it had never seemed to him that it _needed_ to be named; it was normal, a sense like breathing or touch, and it had never really occurred to him that other people didn't have it, or at least didn't put it to use.

It was Jeremy Miles – a red-headed fellow-cadet who'd come to West Point from the clubs of New York –who coined the name, after yet another Military Theory test that Cadet Smith sailed through with colors flying.

"Hey." Miles leaned over the back of his chair, eyeing his classmate with a quizzical expression. "How is it ya _do_ that, anyhow?"

John glanced up from gathering up papers and books, raising an eyebrow. "Do what?"

Miles rolled his bony shoulders in a shrug." Yanno. Work things out like ya do. Figure how t'make good odds outta lousy ones. Know when a risky plan will pay off."

John gave a speculative shrug. "Don't really know what to tell you, Miles." He shouldered his bag. "It just comes naturally, seeing how things'll fit together."

Miles cocked an eyebrow, considered that for a long moment, and then grinned broadly. "Ahuh. I get it. Like jazz."

"Jazz?"

"Jazz." Miles grinned. "When you're playin' and the beat is hot and you've got a tight group that really _knows_ each other, and everythin' just falls into place so you know without thinkin' about it what note to hit next . . ." Miles unfolded his long legs and rose. "That's jazz."

John finished shuffling his belongings together, rose with a crooked grin and a wicked glint in his eyes. "Jazz. I like that."

And as easily as that, his uncanny knack for mad chances and impossible odds gained a name.


	28. Slowing Down

**Title: **Slowing Down  
**Prompt:** 032. "Sunset"  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

He was slow today. Not damagingly slow, maybe not even noticeably slow, but he felt it all the same – the few seconds' delay between being fired on and returning fire, the momentary lag that meant he caught a punch instead of dodging it. Now – sitting on the balcony and watching the sun burn itself to death on the horizon – he nurses his bruised ribs and thinks about the way things slow as they age.

He's been doing this a long time now, and to be honest there's a part of him that's surprised he's made it this far alive – quixotic soldier (or soldier of fortune) isn't a job that usually comes with a pension plan. He loves it all the same, but – though he doesn't often dwell on it – he knows he can't keep it up forever.

Sooner or later that momentary lag will last longer than a moment; those seconds' delays are going to stretch until they become too dangerous to risk. He'll wind down, just like everything does. The best he can do is hope that it won't be anytime soon.

He was slow today. The best he can hope is that he won't be any slower tomorrow.


	29. Frustrating

**Title: **Frustrating  
**Prompt:** 084. "He"  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

"_You've got to get off this ego trip, Lieutenant, you're in danger." _

_"Right, I'm in danger of missing my three o'clock."_

As Face blows them off and edges out the door with rapid, insincere patter, Hannibal clenches his teeth around his cigar and fights the urge to grab Face by the shoulders and shake him until his too-white grin rattles.

The kid's always been cocky – it's part of what first convinced Hannibal that he'd make a good addition to his Team. But every so often that cockiness crosses the line into downright foolhardy arrogance, and this time it's blown so far past the line that Face couldn't see it on a clear day.

He's not Face's father, and in a sense he's only Face's CO because Face still consents to taking his orders. He knows that there's only so much he can do if the Lieutenant won't listen to him. Templeton Peck is an adult, and it's his life; Hannibal knows that.

But – he reflects grimly as the gunfire rings out from outside – it may be Face's life, but Face is still part of _his_ Team.

"C'mon, guys." Hannibal snaps, pulling his gun, "Let's go get him out of this."

* * *

**A/N**: A very small cutscene from the fourth-season episode "Mind Games", wherein Face is "pardoned" as part of an elaborate CIA plot. Hannibal sees through the ruse pretty quickly, but the Lieutenant isn't quite so quick to catch on. The italicized lines are from the episode.


	30. Sightseeing

**Title: **Sightseeing  
**Prompt:** 040. "Sight"  
**Word Count:** 200

* * *

He knows the way by heart, even now – left on this street, then right; six blocks east, three north. It used to lead through bustling neighborhoods, through a crowded business district. Now the neighborhoods are quiet and dusty, the storefronts boarded up, broken windows and empty buildings looming like specters. "The Company built the town", people used to say; and the Company devoured it bit by bit. It's not much for sightseeing, these days.

But for all that, it's still his hometown, and you never forget the way home.

One last turn up the long, gentle slope of the hill . . . and the street abruptly comes to an end. It used to lead to a frame house with a faded picket fence. Now it stops at the fence near the Pit, the gaping maw that swallowed lives and neighborhoods whole.

Hannibal puts the rental car in park and steps out onto the coarse grass that struggles up from the toxic ground. He moves to the fence and stares through it, across the stretch of ground between him and the edge of the Pit, into the deadly emptiness beyond.

It's a long, long time before he can leave again.

* * *

**A/N:** I've mentioned before that in my personal fanon, Hannibal comes from the mining town of Butte, Montana. The Berkeley Pit, a former open-pit copper mine that engulfed a number of Butte neighborhoods as well as smaller communities, is now one of the town's largest tourist attractions. At the time of this story (the mid-to-late 1980's), it was only recently abandoned.


	31. Sound

**Title: **Sound

**Prompt: **037 'Sound'

**Word Count:** 100

* * *

The crossfire makes a racket that would be unbearable were he not long used to that particular sound, but as it is he still misses what Face says. Hannibal takes a quick shot from behind the overturned table he's using as cover.

"What was that, Lieutenant?"

This time he hears the reply over the ping-ping-ping of bullets against the stainless steel tabletop.

"I _said _– some plan you've got going here, Hannibal!"

Hannibal shrugs, takes another shot, listens for and hears the satisfying sound of a bad guy dropping his weapon.

"Well," he calls back, "It was sound in theory, anyhow."


	32. Home

**Title:** Home

**Prompt:** 090. 'Home'

**Word Count: **400

* * *

It's early evening somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Texas. Crickets sound a relentless chorus, the heat of the day is finally seeping off into a pleasant coolness, and there's the faintest rumble of a summer thunderstorm moving in. The freeway is far enough away that the sound of it is nothing but a seashell echo.

They're on their way back to LA after a mission in Arkansas, of all places; one bad guy dispatched with a minimum of fuss, one small farming co-op saved. The biggest expenditure on this one has been distance – 3,200 miles round-trip. Flying would've been faster: but they've put BA on three planes already this year, and sometimes a long drive is worth it for the sake of Team Harmony.

So Hannibal is making his way back from the local grocery to the motor court where they've made camp for the night, breathing in the scent of nightfall in Texas and feeling at peace with the world. It's been a long drive, and most of it is still ahead of them; but for tonight they're settled into one of the cottages at the Yellow Rose Motor Court, with no MPs for a hundred miles and no real hurry to be back to LA anytime soon. Hannibal's between films, Face is between girls, Murdock is supposedly at a mental health facility in Oregon until the end of next week, and BA is . . . Hannibal chuckles. BA is BA; if the big man wants to take off work for a week or a month or an undisclosed period, nobody argues with him.

Hannibal shifts the brown paper bags of coldcuts and chips slightly, waves at the motherly lady who runs the motor court, and makes his way to the end cottage. The lights burn yellow in the Texas dusk, and as Hannibal draws nearer he can hear Murdock and Face talking baseball from inside. BA is sitting on the battered chair on the cottage porch, keeping watch; he nods as Hannibal comes up the porch steps and stands wordlessly to follow him inside.

Hannibal pauses at the door to the cottage, takes a deep breath of summer-smelling air, and thinks, briefly, of how different this place is from Montana (where he came from) and LA (where he's headed). Then he shakes his head, pushes the door open, grins.

"Hey guys." He announces. "I'm home."


	33. Birth

**Title: Perfect for the Job**

**Prompt: 029. 'Birth'**

**Word Count: 100**

* * *

General James Mason gazed meditatively at the man before him, and Lieutenant Colonel Smith returned the look with a placid gaze that belied his reputation. Smith was known to be impulsive – often dangerously so – and given to an unorthodoxy that constantly skirted the edges of insubordination.

He was, in other words, perfect for this job.

Mason slid a folder across the desk. "Assemble your team, Colonel." He said. "You'll report to Colonel Morrison, but the details of the unit are at your discretion."

Smith took the folder. "Yes, sir." He grinned slowly. "I know just the men for the job."


	34. Insides

**Title: The Shot  
**

**Prompt: 004. 'Insides'**

**Word Count: 500**

**Note: **This one contains descriptions of blood and gunshot injury; proceed with caution if you are of a delicate constitution in such matters.

**

* * *

**

The shot hits him low in the ribcage on the left-hand side.

There's no pain – just _impact_, a mule-kick impact that almost folds his legs beneath him. Only years of training and discipline keep him upright and moving, adrenaline surging as he half-stumbles the rest of the way to cover.

His knees buckle when he gets there and he slumps against the wall, momentarily crashing. As the burst of adrenaline fades it's replaced by white-hot, indescribable pain, and the world narrows to the railroad spike of agony driving its way towards his spine. It blazes through him, disrupting his thoughts and cutting short his every . . .

_Breath._ His mind snaps back to the ingrained discipline that has kept him alive this long, tearing his attention from the pain to the injury itself. _Hard to catch a breath, can't fully inhale. _Which is an understatement; he's gasping, each measure of air hard-won and verging on not enough.

_Punctured lung, partly collapsed._ With his left hand he gropes for the wound, applying pressure despite the flare of greater pain doing so earns him. _Bullet broke a rib, maybe two._

Twisting sideways is its own special kind of agony; he pushes past it, slips his right hand under his jacket and around his side, fumbling. Pain roars through him, but his fingers meet no wet patch, no tear in his shirt, and after a moment he lets his hand drop with a grunt. _No exit wound. Bullet's still in there. _

Most likely it pushed shards of shattered rib with it as it tore into the lung, and he fleetingly pictures the clean, merciless line of the shot, the ragged path it ripped through cartilage, muscle, bone, through a thousand nerve endings now aflame with damage done . . .

_Focus,_ he commands sharply, as his fingers slip in the spreading patch of blood at his side. There's a tiny flare of fear at that, faint and easy to shove away. The patch is creeping in its growth, no tell-tale pulse of severed artery; he is not bleeding to death.

Not quickly, anyway.

His right hand finds his pistol and he closes his eyes, visualizing the firefight. _Six opponents in a loose half-circle, firing from cover, mostly handguns. Face and Murdock twenty yards to the left, returning fire; B.A. behind them, prepping explosives._ Another five minutes, then, before the explosion that will turn the fight in their favor. Maybe ten, at the outside.

It's a long time to be pinned down with a bullet in his lung and his gun half-empty.

He braces up and rolls sideways, facing the enemy. The effort costs him; agony jolts through his ribcage and his vision dims. But when it clears again, he is in position to fire around the edge of the wall. _Better a small victory than nothing_ . . .

He tightens his grip on the pistol, reflecting grimly that this was not, after all, one of his better plans.

_It's gonna be a long five minutes, _he thinks, and opens fire.


End file.
